


Quiet Hours

by Vongchild



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, Post-Movie, Second person POV, semi-explicit smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vongchild/pseuds/Vongchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomorrow, the world is going to want to know all about you, Mako Mori.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Once, I was naive and thought I would never write second person POV or smut for public consumption.
> 
> I was wrong.

 

You have four hours alone in the decontamination chamber, covered in foam and teeth chattering, to let it all sink in. It would be two, but, you just had to take a swim, didn’t you, Mako Mori? In a way, you’re grateful for it – it’s the only four hours you’re going to get to yourself for, well… Well, you just closed the Breach. It’s going to be a while. If you do not cry for Stacker Pentecost now, you will not cry for him ever.

You weep. Openly and unabashedly. You are cold and you are lonely and you cry for Stacker Pentecost until you are exhausted from crying for him, and then you cry for your parents, and then you think that Chuck Hansen was maybe not the nicest person you have ever known but you did grow up with him and he did sacrifice himself to clear a path and that’s worth something, so you cry for Chuck Hansen who you might have still become friends with someday (again) and by the time you finish with that, Raleigh is tapping on the glass wondering when you can go get dinner and the doctor is shooing him off. A while after that, they hose you down and give you a set of clean PPDC sweats two sizes too big and send you on your way.

The doctor pretends she has not seen you crying.

Raleigh is waiting for you outside the mess hall.

Raleigh, and this makes you smile so wide you laugh and laugh so hard you cry again—Raleigh has found you a chocolate bar. You finish your dinner – starch, starch, more starch, meat _now with added starch_ – and then you share with him, taking turns breaking off tiny pieces and eating them and you remember doing this with your mother before the first day of school.

As you walk away from the mess hall, you pull his hand into yours and you look at his knuckles, see that they are still bruised from punching Chuck. Was that less than a week ago? That was less than a week ago.

Outside the door to your room, he hesitates just a little too long and then says, awkwardly, “Great work today.” You drop his hand.

“Yeah,” you say, your body itching with potential energy. “You too.”

“Good night,” says Raleigh, like he’s some kind of gentleman or something, and he turns around and goes into his room and you stand there in your doorway and every nerve in your body sings with electricity and you think.

You think, _this is wrong_. You have been inside his head and _this is wrong_.

You march yourself right across the hall and knock on his door and he opens it and looks at you with this sort of bewildered expression for all of two seconds until you grab his face and kiss him until you’re both dizzy and breathless. “Mako,” he says.

“Can I come in?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, make yourself at home.” 

He shuts the door behind you and you _pin him to the wall_. You stare at him from inches away. You feel – predatory. Like Otachi on the prowl. He smiles, this dumb shit-eating grin that you’ve seen in his memories way more times than you’ve seen in person, and you smile back and rub your nose against his and then you go in for the kill, tongues scrabbling and—

Is it as good as you imagined it, when you thought it might never happen?

It is better, because it is real.

He lifts you. Your legs fit neatly around his hips and he carries you to his bunk, starts to lie you down and you say - “I want to be on top.” This is not your first time and you know what you like and he knows that and he accommodates you. (Neither of you mention that the boy you first loved lies atomized at the bottom of the ocean. Or that he had not spoken directly to you for five years before that. Or that Chuck Hansen did not die so that Raleigh Becket could be the hero, he died for Mako Mori, he cleared a path _for the lady_.)

You settle over him, pull his sweater over his head and trace the lines that circle his shoulders with your fingers like you have longed to do since you first laid eyes on them. He flinches, a little. “Does that hurt?” you ask.

“Keep going,” he says. You drift your fingers along the scars, shoulder to elbow to wrist, and then the ones on his torso, and he gasps. You pause. “It’s alright,” he says.

You take off your too-big shirt. Is there any reaction in his eyes to the fact that you’ve been walking around braless all evening? Or did he realize it hours ago and say nothing? You feel him pressing against your thigh. You kiss him again – slow. Deep.

“We don’t have to do this all at once,” he says, again like he’s some kind of gentleman. You smirk at him, because you know he _wants_ to, like you want to, and because it’s cute that he thinks the pair of you aren’t going to be trotted around the world and not given two seconds alone together starting _tomorrow_. You are Tokyo’s Daughter. You know your way around a press junket.

You tell him, “Tonight’s the only night we’ll have to ourselves for a long time.” He nods.

“Okay,” he says. You put his hands on your hips. You take off his pants, and then you take off yours, and there’s a moment when he seems surprised that you’re naked under the double-knotted drawstring waist but another moment when he realizes you haven’t exactly been home to change. He’ll get to see what pretty things you own some other time, right now there is a physical connection to be made, rhythms to find.

It is not like being in the drift.

You are connected by the hangover, sure. The places where your skin touches and you feel every moment from both sides, like an electric shock. The moments when your eyes catch and you are not sure if you are staring into your own eyes or into his and you have to look away in embarrassment, find some new place to kiss. The moments where you synchronize become awkward, something to laugh anxiously about – _this wears off, right?_ – and then move on from. You take the lead. He lets you.

You ride him until he gasps your name, until his fingers clench in your hair and your breath comes in little, shuddery gasps, until his lips find the delicate spot where your neck meets your shoulders and he whispers to it that he loves you.

You think it back, say nothing, and he accepts this – those are not words that come easily to you. Instead, you ease off of him, tuck yourself into the space between his body and the wall, and he slips an arm around you and pulls you close.

“Tomorrow,” you say, “The world’s going to want to know all about you and me.”

“Shhh,” says Raleigh, turning out the lights. “There’s still a few hours left just for us.” 

 

 


End file.
